


Post-Brawl Pick-Me-Up

by PippinTheRenegade



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftermath, Bar Fight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:25:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PippinTheRenegade/pseuds/PippinTheRenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one time Grantaire stood up for anything, he got hurt (you should see the other guy). Still, it was worth it, at least in the moment. If only he could get off this barstool and go home, then he could just put it behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-Brawl Pick-Me-Up

His hands were burning. Okay, not literally burning, but there was warmth and the nerves fired off painfully. Grantaire stared at the red, itching marks on his hands and forearms and knew they had to be present elsewhere; these ones just stung more because that glass had broken in his hand. Alcohol was determined to get into his system one way or another, it seemed, even if it left his skin stinging every time he moved.

The details of the fight were blurry, probably because he had gotten knocked in the head at least once, but the details were of little consequence to him. Actually, the only bit that really mattered was the reason the fight had started in the first place. Some loyalist bastard had dared to come in here, to his favorite bar, and badmouth a certain "scruffy band of school children," paying special mind to that "scraggly blond loudmouth that leads the lot." The guy had earned a broken nose for that comment alone.

Grantaire might have been a drunkard, right at the very bottom of the proverbial ladder of society, but no one was allowed to talk about his friends like that, not when he was too far gone for his inhibitions to kick in. Especially not that shining, glorious example of human divinity currently standing over him with a lecture at the ready.

"Bossuet said I'd find you here." The way Enjolras spoke, his voice even if a bit clipped, Grantaire wasn't sure if he was angry or not. "We don't need you making enemies for us right now. You know that. What exactly were you thinking?"

Grantaire slumped against the bar, staring up at Enjolras with his best attempt at a pitiful expression and getting completely dismissed. This wasn't how he had wanted this to go at all. If anything, he had hoped to just make his way home all by himself and deal with all this in the morning. He had forgotten that he had seen Bossuet here before the fighting started. Damn tattle-tale.

He breathed a sigh and set his sights squarely on the floor between Enjolras' feet. "I wasn't," he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his hand fumbled for his cup on the counter. One of the nastier cuts on his hand pulled wrong, and he hissed against the pain before pressing the cool glass to his lips.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. "Of course you weren't. You never are," he grumbled, earning another sad look from Grantaire. He ignored that, turning his attention to the barkeep instead. " _Monsieur_ , do you have anything to help my friend here? He's bleeding on your counter."

The bartender glanced them both over, then shrugged and reached under the counter. There was a soft clink of glass bottles before the man came back with a roll of gause. He slid the bandage across the counter without a word and went back to his other customers- the ones that were actually paying and not breaking things.

Enjolras pulled the end of the bandage loose and let the roll fall to the floor. He pried the cup from Grantaire's grip, prompting a bit of protest. He pulled a face once he could see the gash across the palm- nasty thing, probably from the broken glass- and started to wrap the wound as gently as he could, muttering all the while. "I don't know why you'd pull this, Grantaire. It doesn't make sense. Not for you, anyway."

"He called you stupid."

Enjolras paused. "What?"

"Said you were a stupid child. That he couldn't wait to see you dead in the street like a dog. That's where the strays belong anway."

"And so you punched him in the face?"

Grantaire nodded.

There was a tight grip on his arm and a smile tugging at the corner of Enjolras' lips, and he tried his best not to flinch despite the fact that his whole body felt like a giant bruise. "Good man." He tied the bandage end down and gave his work a once-over. "We should get you out of here. Joly's better at this than I am anyway."

"Nah." Grantaire flexed his hand, grinning despite the sting. "I'm fine, and I've got a drink to finish, so- hey!" A sharp tug on his arm hauled him off the barstool and to his feet in a second, where he wobbled a moment before Enjolras caught him under the arm. "Fine. I'll go. But on one condition."

An annoyed eyeroll. "What?"

"Carry me home?"

Another eyeroll and a groan, but there was a smile, too. "Fine."


End file.
